Descending Like a Hurricane
by molamola
Summary: In March, they are in Sicily.


**Disclaime**r: NCIS still does not belong to me, although the 3 OC's contained herein do. :)

**Notes**: As a birthday present to my close friend and amazing editor, I wrote her a snippet that will become part of the sequel to Da Mi Basia Mille. I hadn't intended to deal with anything outside of what was going on in D.C., but I have a character that wants his backstory told, and Ziva needed some time too, so there will be more complications and details that I had anticipated. This part will fit into the sequel, but I'm not yet at liberty to say just where along the timeline it takes place. Happy Birthday, again, Heather!

* * *

Descending Like a Hurricane

_Deciding on the weather_

In March, they are settled for a brief sojourn in Sicily, using the western port town of Marsala as their base. Sicily is but a stone's throw away from Tunis, though far enough to allow the semblance of ease and relaxation.

Chisholm acts the tourist and takes pictures of the small shops and the families feeding the pigeons in the piazzas. He buys postcards and spends the afternoon siesta scribbling, though what there is to scribble about on a classified mission is beyond her comprehension.

Italian-born Cristina D'Amico rents a bike and heads off into the mountains as soon as their daily briefings and plans are done. She always brings back a loaf of sweet bread or dessert cheese for them to consume after their evening meal.

Malachi rarely leaves the rooms, spending his time cleaning his weaponry and pouring over maps and intelligence. Ziva understands this the best, and when Chisholm and D'Amico return, light-hearted for their day's activities, the Mossad agents are to be found in absolute silence, working in tandem borne of many years of training.

The Brit and Italian do not envy their teammates this, and more and more Ziva is finding that she wants to be the one returning with a smile and a tale, even if this stay is only temporary. Their mission is paramount, but she has all too recently discovered just how possible it is to complete the task at hand in a most efficient and satisfactory manner while still enjoying the life you are living.

It was a very brief experience, but one that haunts her waking moments when she is not entirely focussed on their mission. She does not dream most nights, for which she is both thankful and almost heart-broken. She needs uninterrupted sleep to stay sharp and alive, but the irrational, soft part of her yearns to relive the last month with him, any part of their few years together, and most especially their last night.

She rises before the sun each morning and dresses swiftly and silently while Cristina snores in the twin bed on the other side of their room. She splashes cold water on her face, fills her water bottle, ties her shoes and heads off into the sleeping town, feet pounding the alternating pavement and cobblestones.

The blue and white tuna boats are still moored for the season along Molo Cristoforo Columbo, the pier road that leads to the harbour lighthouse. She watches the beam of light sweep out over the sea, weakening in visual intensity as the sky beyond begins to lighten. She can still see the beacon's tower from where she runs south of the town on the coastal Lungomare Mediterraneo, looking back over her shoulder while she checks for tails, an automatic gesture that she no longer notices.

She passes dock warehouses while she is still close to the town, then a yacht club, with a mix of speed and sail boats. The small cluster that is the Villagio Montalto is just beginning to stretch and waken when she pauses at a forlorn beach that is her turnaround point to watch the waves crash on the shore, droplets glittering in the first rays of sunlight coming over the mountains behind her.

It has been sunny and mild here since they arrived, weather in distinct disagreement with Ziva's mood and general outlook on life since she left D.C. two months ago. Closed up in the rooms during the day, she can keep the blinds down, and enshroud herself in semi-darkness that matches the emptiness she feels within. She cannot stop the sun from rising each day, however, and her need for movement, for the familiarity and ritualism of her morning run, force her to face the slight warmth in the salt-tinged breeze and see the arching blue sky overhead.

She stands at the water's edge, removing her shoes to dig her toes into the cold sand, feeling the contrasting heat from the sun's light on her back. She dreamt of him last night, felt his large hands on her body, heard him whispering his heart into her ears. She awoke much too soon, clamping her mouth tightly shut to keep from crying out his name into the stillness of the night. Her heart refused to settle, and she had to struggle to keep her breath from hitching in her chest, cursing herself for her weakness while simultaneously craving her partner's touch, unwavering support, and love.

Her run has done little to soothe her mind or her soul, and the wind dries the salt-trails on her exertion-reddened cheeks as she stares out to the brightening sea. It should have rained today, a late winter's storm that would have soaked her through and erased any evidence that she was no longer the hard, perfect soldier she once was. However, she has no control over the rain, nor the sun, and is coming to realize that she has most likely lost control of her heart as well, left behind in her apartment that still smelled like them when she left.

She does have control over how long, and how fast she can push herself before she is forced to begin her day in earnest, and so she loses herself in the cadence of the run, dodging children walking to school, bicyclists headed to work, and weaving through stands being set up in front of the shops.

By the time she is done showering off in the tiny ensuite bathroom she and Cristina share, her mind is properly focussed once more on the next portion of their mission. She nudges her roommate awake when Malachi arrives with coffees and their orders to move out. Cristina leaves her bicycle at the front desk, Malachi surreptitiously adjusts the position of his knives, and Chisholm drops a pile of postcards in the post box on their way out. Ziva watches the lighthouse for as long as she can on the way to their dock, and then turns her attention to the sky. In the distance, she sees a low gathering of clouds.


End file.
